


Kindness

by Jayde_Spell



Series: Brother, [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Author has a lot of feelings in general, Body Wounds, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Growth, Character of Color, Dissociation, Fear, Foggy just wants it to stop, Gen, Grief, Homophobia, Lots of Crying, Matt Has Compassion, Mental Instability, Mild Mentions of Domestic Abuse, Mild mention of eating issues, Misery Loves Company, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic, Perpetual Nausea, Poverty, Russia, Shared Bond, Starvation, Sweat, Trauma, Violence, Younger Brother, can people really change?, peace was never an option
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayde_Spell/pseuds/Jayde_Spell
Summary: Vladimir does not wish to call out in this apartment. Does not want to appear vulnerable, even though he is. He bites his tongue to keep quiet, to let the last memories he has come together.





	Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Non-Beta’d. Second fic in the series! New to sharing what I write, please be gentle (:

There is a moment of quiet where Vladimir is between sleep and waking. He floats in this space and slowly contemplates his surroundings. It is warm, he is warm. There is a material around him that he recognizes as a luxury. Warmth. He is warm. But there is more, as he wakes this warmth seems to grow, seems burn into his side and Vladimir opens his eyes with a gasp of pain. 

It is dark in the apartment. The pain swirls in his eyes, prohibits him from seeing all, but what he does make out is that there is walls and doorway. He can piece together that he is in a bedroom, one that is not his own. The burning in his side does not sway. Creates a burning in his eyes. 

Vladimir does not wish to call out in this apartment. Does not want to appear vulnerable, even though he is. He bites his tongue to keep quiet, to let the last memories he has come together. 

Death and pain. He was ready, dammit, he was ready to go. Anger curls in his stomach and touches him where there is no pain. He knows where he is, where he must be. 

"Mask!" He growls out through gritted teeth. He struggles, only for a second he struggles, and slowly starts to sit up. Ignoring the pain in favor of the lick of rage he feels crawling over him. 

His voice summons the man easily, a dark shadow only lit by the fluorescent lights from the outside. 

He wants to ask why, wants to grab his shoulders and shake them, he wants to strangle him. Why?! Why show such cruelty as to take him away from his brother? But none of this leaves his lips. Can leave them. The pain in his side shocks him, feels like electrocution, and Vladimir let's out another gasp. It sounds inhuman to his own ears. 

He remembers the man in the mask rushing towards him, leaning over him to check his wound. But this is all he remembers in the morning. Now, his mind leaves his body and he shuts his eyes. A small part of him hopes for the last time. 

Fate is cruel, Vladimir has known this, so he is not altogether surprised to wake up in the morning, just a little bitter. 

The man in the mask is out and so Vladimir feels it prudent to reflect. 

His brother is dead. He is alone in a foreign country, with no money, no land, and no friends or people under him. He is alone. His brother is dead. He ignores the trembling that wants to start at his lips and shuts his eyes. 

This appears to be a new habit of his. To sleep and wake to the man in the doorway. Instead of questions or a fight Vladimir stays silent and wishes to separate from reality. Fate is cruel, but he knows this already. 

"You've been asleep for some time now," the man says. 

Vladimir does not care. There is nothing he cares about now. 

"I had half hoped to come home to find you dead, but I guess we don't always get what we wish for, do we, Vladimir?" The man says tauntingly. 

If his body was ready, Vladimir would have laughed. But since it is not he ignores the man. The man in the mask knows nothing, so he will say nothing to him. But the man in the mask appears not to be satisfied with easy silences or one-sided conversations. Vladimir wishes to roll his eyes. He wishes for a lot of things. 

"So, the question right now is what happens next? You seem to be lucid for now, I suppose. And I want answers. Don't hold back," the man smiles cruelly, as if he has all the cards, the winning hand, but he knows nothing. 

So Vladimir says nothing. 

"Who is in Fisk's circle, Vladimir?" He says confidently, threatening. Like having his name means something, that he holds a secret over his head. 

Vladimir is tired. Of games. Of stupid men in masks. He yawns and does not care if the Mask sees. 

The man strides towards him, and places his left hand on Vladimir's burnt side, pressing in. He hisses. 

"Am I boring you? Sorry, I guess I'll have to be more clear." The man bites at him. Presses his hand in deeper, feeling around the wound. "Let's get something straight, you are in my apartment. You should be dead, but you aren't. I am the only reason you're alive, and I can be the reason why you wouldn't be," he licks his lips. "So I'll ask you again, and if you can be so kind as to answer, that would be beneficial for a man like you. I want the names of the men is Fisk's circle." 

-

The first time the man in the mask witnesses what Vladimir has become is surprising for both men. The Mask has been out the whole day, and Vladimir has been looking in. 

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and attempts to breathe in, meets resistance and chokes. There are tears and drool because Vladimir is an ugly thing, has always been an ugly thing, his weeping no different. He feels like his soul is trying to leave him, like his brother. 

When Vladimir was a little boy there had been a stray dog that had wandered into the wrong side of the city. He had kicked it spitefully, angry and curious. But Anatoly had been so angry with him. Had shoved Vladimir into the dirt and had gone to the dog. Pet the whimpering thing, and held it close to his body. Vladimir felt cold but not because of the temperature. He would not let his brother see him cry so he ran until he could not anymore, because the curfew was soon and darkness was not a friend of his. Anatoly fed the dog and forbade Vladimir from touching it ever again, scorning him whenever he said that there was not enough food for the dog. Not enough love to share with it. His brother had always been kind and Vladimir had always been selfish. 

Vladimir sobs uncontrollably, chokes on his own sorrow, and he wishes he was dead. 

The man in the mask entered the room some time ago, and stood uncomfortably just outside of it. Surprised to come home to the sound of weeping, to the unseen sight of the Russian mobster curled into himself in despair. 

"Kill me, Mask. Do it." He dares the man. Ashamed of his disgrace. "I am ready," he whispers brokenly. 

The man in the mask ignores him. Leaves him to his tears. 

(there is not enough food for this mutt, Tolya. we have no love to share with it.)

-

Vladimir still cannot sit up without pain, has lived in the apartment for perhaps weeks now. Time alludes him. The Mask and him are quiet roommates. He notices that the man is bruised in the patches of skin he can see. But he doesn't ask any questions because he is not Tolya, he does not care. 

This is the thought that blooms and curses Vladimir until he is shaking. This is the second time the man is a witness to his downfall. 

The Mask at first seems concerned that his body having this reaction is wound related, but then he stills when he knows different. Vladimir is crying again. 

Why is he alive when his brother was the one who was kind? Fate has always been cruel, he knows this. Knowing does not make it any less of a bitter pill. 

"I am not kind," he says grittily. The man in the mask looks at him in surprise, and a little suspicious. Of course he knows Vladimir is not good, of course he does. "Tolya was always kind." He says quietly. He knows the man will not recognize the nickname but thankfully he asks no questions. 

-

Vladimir is growing stronger, his availability to answer questions is lessening. It creates a nervous sort of anxiety that touches his tongue and his stomach. It whispers to him, he is not hungry, he should not eat. 

The man in the mask is suspicious because that is what he always is. His whole body stares at Vladimir, even with hidden eyes. But Vladimir is not afraid, he is sick. 

-

The day he sees the Mask without his actual mask he cannot make it in time to the bathroom to purge. So he does it on the man's shitty couch. It is an accident, or something like that. Whatever it was, it was unavoidable. Of course the man is beautiful. Of course his eyes are vacant in an all-too-familiar way. Of course. Fate is cruel. He laughs uncontrollably. The man keeps his distance, he asks him why he is crying. 

"Why are you crying?" 

"Am not," Vladimir spits out, literally, water cascading down his cheeks at this point. "Suck my dick, Mask."

-

The apartment is too small. Is too shitty. Vladimir reminds the man daily until he promises the Russian that he will start taking out for walks in the morning in exchange Vladimir will have to eat better. 

Like a dog, he thinks. Vladimir does not like dogs. 

The Mask is worried. He actually begins to take Vladimir on walks, out of costume. He has Vladimir put his arm around his shoulders so he can lean into him. It is concerning for both men. They both know he does not deserve this luxury. 

On one of these days, Vladimir can walk himself. His gait is slow, and sometimes stumbling, so the man always keeps a hand on his elbow. An imitation of a true blind man. Other times, when the man is out, Vladimir takes walks by himself. He learns the ins and outs of the Mask's neighborhood. He learned that there is a women's shelter, just down the street. This is pivotal. He thinks of Anatoly, thinks of their lives, thinks hard. He knows that he has not treated any human being with any sort of respect, outside of his older brother. It was not his way, he did not learn. But he tries now. To come to terms. He can feel himself changing and shifting in his own body, the fluttering anxiety of his own skin, and chooses to be kind. They do not know him, thank Mary. Do not know him when he starts to volunteer whenever the man is away. So they have him clean, cook. And when one of the women comes in, scared out of her mind, an angry boyfriend with a knife behind her, Vladimir does what he is good at. Does not think. Is not kind in the way he beats he man. He has almost always received some sort of satisfaction from physical activity, and this is no different. The way the woman thanks him makes him feel strong again. Until he remembers the past, and he brings himself back down to size. He is not a good man. He is not a kind man.

Nothing he could ever do can erase that. 

-

It is an uncomfortable day when the Mask learns of his new past-time. It starts with a crash, and ends with one. 

The man is pissed to hell, comes through the door like a bull and drags Vladimir down to the floor by his shirt collar. 

"What are you doing to those women, Vladimir? What are you planning?" The man howls in Vladimir's face. 

He brings his fist down on the Russian's healing jaw.

"Not of your concern!" Vladimir says angrily. 

"Not of my- oh no, plenty of my concern. You're a dog," he kicks Vladimir in the un-burned part of his ribs.

Vladimir goes out like a light within the minute and does not even bother to respond. 

-

It is almost time. Vladimir can feel it in his bones. 

Almost time. He's been sweating through his bedsheets at night. 

He's given the man all the information he has on Fisk, and prison is getting closer and closer. Without his brother, he will not survive. Vladimir hears it singing in his blood. It is almost time. 

There is a boy, he cannot be older than five or six, and he runs into Vladimir on this particular walk. 

Vladimir has finger-shaped bruises starting to form on his biceps from where the Mask grips him. He does not falter. 

"Hello, little one. Are you alright?" Vladimir asks. 

The boy is small. Vladimir could crush him with his fist. 

His heart gives a small pang in his chest and his stomach plunges.

"Y-yes," the boy cries out nervously. He sizes Vladimir up, from his worn boots to the blind man's hand on his arm. 

"Where is your mother, child?" Vladimir asks, immediately concerned. He cannot imagine this boy being out in Hell's Kitchen alone. He rests his big hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"I-I can't find her-r," the boy chokes out. "Momma!" He calls out to her in the street. 

The boy is almost run over by the oncoming throng of people coming and going and Vladimir is quick to pull him out of the traffic. And is quick to growl at anyone who stares at the hysterical child. 

"Where have you seen your mother last?" Vladimir asks calmly, and is careful to make his words gentle, as he remembers Tolya could. 

In his head, he plans to take him to the women's shelter, until him and the Mask can track down the boy's guardians if they cannot find her now. The women will look after the child. 

"I-I don't know," he cries desperately.

"What is her name, boy?" 

"Momma's?" He croaks. "Melanie," 

Vladimir starts scoping the area, he may not have advanced senses like the Mask but he has the eyes of a hawk. 

"We will find her. Do not worry," he says quickly. 

(do not worry, Vladimir. it is just a dream. just a dream. i have you.)

Vladimir shakes his head - clears them of memory - and takes the boy's hand within his own. His hand dwarf's the boy's. 

He reminds himself to be gentle. 

"We shall go, we shall find her." He nods to himself, straightens his back and squares his shoulder. "Melanie!" His booming voice calls out, fills in the empty space left, and creates a sort of path through the waves of people. Unconsciously or not, trying to move out of his way. 

"Jefferson!" They hear a breathless voice call. 

A young woman comes running up to them, does not stop until she has the boy wrapped up in her outstretched arms. 

"Mommy!"

Vladimir has difficulty swallowing. 

There is blood everywhere. On his shirt. On his hands, on his brother. His brother does not look surprised. A repulsion growing on his features as he stares at Vladimir's hands. He will not wash them. Tries not to notice the stare. There is nothing to be done and the only thing they can do now is move forward. Just the two of them. Why is his brother not embracing him? They have what they need now, Vladimir is free.

Tolya will not stop staring at his hands. The shuttered and far-away look that arrives more frequently, as of late, on his face. 

Where does his Anatoly go? Why will he not take his own brother there? Why is he still staring? Vladimir is free. 

He can feel the Mask's unseen stare on the back of his neck, the bruising in his bicep reminding him where he is. Who he is. His brother is dead. He is alone. He takes in a breath. 

The woman looks up from where her head was buried in the child's hair and says a quick thank-you as she rushes her child away in her arms. 

"I want to go home, Mask. Let us go home." Vladimir says quietly, feeling a little more empty than before. 

"Matt," the Mask says, a little desperately. "My name is Matt." 

"Okay, Matt." Vladimir readjusts the hand on his elbow and starts to lead them back to the man's - Matt's - apartment. 

There should be more said once they reach Matt's apartment. But Vladimir has nothing. He knows he should address the situation with the boy. He knows they should address why the man had given Vladimir something as precious as his name. He knows he should ask the Mask when he will turn him in. He knows, he knows. They should be at blows, odds, with each other. He knows. However, Vladimir is tired. He can feel that hollowed out ache bone-deep. 

When he notices the workings of Matt's face, and the attempting of words lodged in his throat, Vladimir shakes his head. 

"No," Vladimir says gently. "Am tired, Mathew. No." 

He hopes that Matt will let this go, just this once. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and ignore the reality of just how far out of control he is of his own life... just for another moment. 

The man must have acquiesced because Vladimir is left to try and choke his panic in silence. 

-

Vladimir is beyond hungry. There is desperation clawing out of his stomach and leaking into his brain. This is madness, he thinks. The biting wind of his home village is unkind to Vladimir's skin. But when has it ever been? He is not like his brother. Anatoly is beside him. Leaning into his warmth, his very being. 

"My hatred continues to grow for this place," Anatoly says to the wind. 

It does not need a reply, so Vladimir does not offer one. If he were cruel he would tell his brother what he really thought. That he has never minded the wind because it reminds him of who he is. What he must be willing to do to survive. It is something that was meant to be only familiar to Vladimir, but has grown into a sort of comfort. He does not share this with Anatoly. Lately, he has noticed how his brother leaves him more often than not. That the words he chooses are more careful, now. As if he needed to be aware and on his feet when he is with his brother. It pulls at something beneath Vladimir's rib cage. So he's been trying to be more quiet and to speak less. Trying to make sure he never surprises his brother or displease him. It's tedious and exhausting, but at least Tolya is speaking to him. At least he is looking at him like he exists, now. Vladimir can live with pain, and discomfort. He can live with biting winds and the sort of hunger that is slowly driving him away from sanity. But the one thing he could never live with is a life where his brother is not by his side. Not in every part of him. He can do this thing for Tolya, he knows it. It is a small sacrifice to keep a silence. 

-

Sleep has never been something that Vladimir has been particularly fond of. Never something he gave much thought. If it was available to him, he would rest because that is what he needed to stay alive. And when it wasn't available there was no love lost. In this sort of world outside of reality that Vladimir and Matt have created for themselves, in this apartment, sleep has been a frequent lover. He has not slept this much since he was a child. 

There is a healing power in slumber that baffles Vladimir. He is often surprised that recently, every time he awakens he finds himself stronger than the day before. The process of mending bones and torn skin is lengthy and grueling. He shouldn't be surprised that his body is finally coming to itself, but he finds himself in wonder at every step he is able to take without gritting his teeth. Every reach he makes with his arms that does not result in agony. 

It brings a sort of lightness in his step and an almost child-like feeling of glee. But he knows this feeling will pass. The weight of everything that has been done will soon be the yoke he will strain to bear. For now he is in bliss. 

-

This night the man comes back with a friend. It sends Vladimir's hackles rising. There is something wrong, he thinks as he watches the two men enter the house from behind the bedroom door. He knows that they will be okay, Matt being the fighter that he is, and the fact that Vladimir picked out one of his favorite knives from the kitchen. It's serrated, medium in length, and heavy in his hands. There is a grin, borne from cruelty, being pulled across his lips. Let us see if the stranger tries to pull something. Let us see. 

"Matty, you didn't tell me you had a guest." The voice is odd and his tone sets Vladimir's nerves on fire. 

The stranger is not facing him. Vladimir notices the stick that he carries looks frightfully similar to the one Matt has. 

"He's no one, don't try and change the subject." The Mask bites out. 

"No, hold on, I wanna see who you're hiding from me, Matty." He raises his wrinkled hand and pats Matt's shoulder patronizingly. 

Vladimir has never been one to back down from a challenge. 

He walks slowly, every inch of him reflecting the monster he is capable of being. He walks slowly, confidently, like a predator, towards the two blind men. He makes sure to draw himself to his full height and that he keep his wits about him. Obviously this man is not a friend to Matt. Obviously he is a threat to this little world and to himself. He makes sure not to underestimate this stranger and curiously runs his hawkish eyes over the man's body, searching for a tell. He does not bother to hide the knife and keeps his grip firm.

"Who are you?" He rumbles at the stranger, keeping a careful distance. 

"You first," the blind man grins wickedly at nothing. 

"Vladimir," Matt says impatiently. "This is Stick. And shouldn't you be at that place?"

Matt is not good at being subtle. Both Stick and Vladimir snort. 

"Stick, heh?" He turns to the old man. "Stupid name." 

He can hear Matt grind his teeth together, it makes him grin. 

"State your business, then, you may leave." Vladimir says firmly. He does not like this man. 

"Oh! So you're giving the orders around here, huh?" He tsks. "Matty, I didn't know you swung that way. Hell, it doesn't surprise me. You've always been taken with being shoved around." 

His tone is light, but his words are heavy, and Vladimir sees the weight of them hit Matt like a punch to the gut. 

"But it doesn't matter who tops, right?" He says maliciously. "If that's what you have to tell yourself... No matter. What did I tell you about indulging this kind of behavior, boy?" 

No, Vladimir thinks to himself. He does not like this man one bit. 

"You told me..." he makes a painful and anger-filled expression. "That I couldn't get involved with anyone. Because of the war." 

Vladimir feels his eye brows touch his hair line. 

It doesn't take long for the two blind men to come to blows but it does take a moment for Vladimir to figure out if he should interfere. A child has died because of the old man. And children are a sore spot for the Mask, Vladimir is intimate in his knowledge in this. But when the old man throws Matt to the ground, and yells ugly things to him, Vladimir does not care about duty or honor. He will not let this man break Matt. Vladimir may be injured but he is an animal. And he will tear the old man apart with his bare fists if he has to. 

The old man is savage and fast, and nearly lands a game-changing punch to his side at every turn. But Vladimir can be quick to. Can be cruel and savage and ruthless. He does not have enhanced senses or battle training but he has fought and killed for everything he has ever had in his life. When he is kicked, he kicks harder and does not care for finesse. When he is hit, he punches harder than before. He always meets his opponent and then some. He thrives in this. And while Matt may be down for a minute, Vladimir is up, and he has his hands wrapped around Stick's throat. He uses his grip to brutally throw him against the wall. He can hear bones and wood cracking and straining under his wrath. 

He is desperately hungry and the man in front of him becomes the face of every other man who has ever stood in his and his brother's way. He is desperately hungry, and his bones ache from the heavy labor he has done for next to no pay. The wind is biting and it makes him feel alive. He can feel Tolya at his shoulder and it urges him on. He will not stand in their way. They are so, so cold. He can practically feel the blood slowing in his veins. This man is standing in their way of warmth, of a full belly, of life. But not for long. He begins to squeeze with the intent to break. Kill. 

"Vladimir, stop!" Matt is shouting. 

His arms are sound Vladimir's middle and he is pulling with all his strength. 

The man he holds with his hands is choking, but nearly as much as he did before. The clawing at Vladimir's arms has slowed, but the wounds are deep. Even if he had not noticed them. 

He lets himself be pulled off. It is suddenly too warm in this apartment. Nervous energy is thrumming within him. He finds himself afraid. It is hard for him to comprehend.

"Tolya?" He calls out quietly. 

He could have sworn... he shakes his head. The world is spinning. And Matt is laying the old man on the floor with care, he cares, and it is painful to watch. His head turns when he hears Vladimir's question and he pauses. 

"It's just us," he affirms just as quietly. 

But it is not, and Vladimir stares down at the stranger in Matt's arms. 

"He was going to kill you," 

"No, I don't think so. Hurt or incapacitate? Yes." Matt says. 

It is too warm. A cold sweat makes its way across Vladimir's head. For a second, he forgot where he was. 

"I-I do not know... not know what has happened." Vladimir admits in a hushed voice. Shares it like the secret that it is. 

It makes him nervous. He continues to sweat. 

"It's okay," the American assures. 

It is not okay. 

"No, it is not okay." Vladimir says despairingly. "I am not really here, am I?" 

Matt's head startles at the words. Apprehension lining his body. 

"Vladimir, I think you need to sit down." 

"On what, Mathew?" He laughs like a dying man. He is one. 

The question he asked is valid. Seems the stranger did them both a favor and broke the shit couch. Well, maybe it was not a favor. He broke it with Matt's body. 

His laughter turns into a cough that has been building up from the bottom of his toes to the top of his head. He takes Matt's advice and sits on the floor. 

-

Something has changed. Vladimir can feel it between himself and Matt but he is not aware of what it is. Matt is careful when he touches Vladimir, in how he cleans and binds Vladimir's arms. He checks the bandages around his midsection and resews every lost stitch. He is not sure what is happening. He tries to murder the creeping amount of panic that bleeds out of him. Matt does not notice. 

The man only fixes, his practiced hands precise and accurate in a way that makes Vladimir want to scratch his head in wonder. Seems he will always be surprised by this man. 

It is not long before Vladimir has to return the favor. 

Not long at all, in fact. 

Actually, Vladimir is not a fan of how all of it went down. He grinds his teeth together angrily. 

It starts out with the Mask. How else? The man is on a war path and out for blood. He leaves an anxious Vladimir in a fit of rage to find Nobu. He is stupid. 

Vladimir waits. Because this is what he has to do. He knows this will not end well and he hopes he does not have to learn about Matt's death by the sight of police entering their apartment. He is beyond angry with roommate at this moment. 

He is not scared. 

He is strong, so it is not fear laced in his veins that is only relieved by a fitful sleep on the new couch. It is not worry, do not worry. 

(do not worry, Volodya. it will be fine, sleep. tomorrow is a new day. annew day, Volodya. please sleep, little one. please.)

He falls into a dark slumber. Dreams of hands pulling at his feet. They attempt to drag Vladimir down, down, down, down. It is so dark and he is so alone. He does not want to fall but there is no use in fighting it, is there? But he has to fight. That is all he knows. Strength does not help him now. If anything, it speeds his decline into an unknown hell. 

Vladimir wakes up in a sweat to a crash. The man in the mask is home, and he tries to keep his distance. To make sure his anger at the stupid man is known but curiosity wins out. Worry wins out. 

"Mathew?" he whispers into the dark. 

"Vladimir," the darkness whispers back. 

Matt may be the farthest thing from the devil, but right now the air is charged with something supernatural, and the tang of blood that invades Vladimir's senses makes his own stop circulating. If only for a second. 

He catches the man as he gracelessly falls. 

There is blood everywhere. On his hands, on his arms. He is covered. But while he may be covered, Matt is bathed in it. He holds onto him tightly, a feeling not-so foreign entering from his spine. 

"No, no, no, no!" He chokes out. "Matvey! Stop it, no, stop it, stop." He reverts back to his original tongue in his fear. The harsh sounds of his first language are familiar to Vladimir and offer him comfort at the most basic level. 

They are not alone, him and Matvey. There is a man in their living room. Inebriated, by the smell of it and dressed in a fancy suit. He tells the man to fuck off, that he'll kill him if he takes another step closer but the man ignores him. Vladimir is not used to be being ignored. 

"...what? Where's Matt? Who are you? Oh god, is that blood? I'm gonna be sick," the man says queasily. 

Vladimir growls. Get. The fuck. Out of here. 

"Dude, I know you're probably saying something really important but I don't understand what the hell you're saying!" The stranger says with a hint of panic. "Matt!" The man cries again. 

Vladimir has no time for this. He knows he only has a few options to keep both him and Matt safe. He has to somehow fight this man who appears to know him, and somehow also keep the Mask from bleeding out. And he has to find someone with medical experience who would not send him and Matvey to prison or a hospital at first glance. He slowly begins to raise himself up, at the same time putting Matt gently on the ground. Then he grabs a stray table leg that was not cleaned up from the old man's visit. 

"Whoa. Okay there buddy, I'm not going to attack you guys," the small man pleads quickly. It will not take long to take him out. "There's been some kind of misunderstanding, obviously. I'm looking for my friend, Matt. He's about yea high and hella blind." The man is slowly backing up from Vladimir, sensing the danger he is in. 

Vladimir questions who he is and his business with his Matvey, if he had anything to do with his present state. But at each word, the man appears more and more concerned and confused. 

"Dude, I don't speak Russian! English! English!" He screeches. 

No matter, he will take care of this. 

"No, Vladimir. Friend." The moan cuts through the high-tensioned room. 

Vladimir cocks his head to the side and regards American's statement. But he has never ignored his flight or fight reflexes before and it is hard to do so now, even for Matvey. 

"... Matty?" The small man gasps. "Oh god. Oh god, oh god." 

Vladimir moves in front of the Mask to protect him from his supposed "friend's" vision. He knows he is wasting precious time dealing with the stranger and that Matt needs help, right now. So Vladimir takes a calculated risk and ignores the small man in place of finding a phone. 

"Oh my god," the man says when the Russian walks by him. 

"Matty." The man rushes to his roommate's side and takes off his mask. 

This action pulls at something dangerous inside of Vladimir and he grimaces. 

There are only three people in Matvey's contact list on his burner phone. His eyes catch on the name Claire. He presses the call button before he thinks about it. 

"...hello?" A cautious voice answers. 

He tells the insipid nurse of Matt's condition, how he needs her here, now. But she does not comprehend. Does not understand. 

Vladimir does not understand. He does not know what is happening, why these idiotic Americans cannot understand him. 

"What?" The voice is sharp. 

Vladimir growls in frustration and shoves at the small man's shoulder to get his confused attention away from the man on the floor. 

"What? Oh," 

He takes the phone from Vladimir delicately and he and the nurse converse. 

"Shit, okay. Yeah. Matt's in bad shape..." the man chokes up. "I don't know what to do. Just get here as soon as you can, I guess. Shit. Yeah. I don't... I don't know. He doesn't seem to speak English. Matt called him Vladimir, I think? Okay. Yeah, I will. Bye." The man shuts off the phone. "Fuck." 

When the nurses finally arrives at the apartment she takes one look at Vladimir and turns around to leave. No. He will not let this happen. It takes all the restraint and self control he has in the world not to grab to lout by her hair, and instead grips her arm, and drags her back in the apartment. 

"Are you Claire? Thank god," the man breathes in a sigh of relief. 

"Don't thank me yet," she says coldly and attempts to yank her arm from Vladimir. She turns to look at him and hisses back at the man, "I didn't sign up for this." 

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure none of us did. So you're welcome to join the club. Look, can you help him or not? And Russian dude... let go of her arm, okay?" 

Vladimir chooses to let go of her for his own reasons. Not because some coward American told him to. 

It is a long night. Even by Vladimir's standards. The woman works hard and is not hesitant in any move she makes. It is intriguing for him to witness. 

Vladimir is not new to blood or violence. He is not new to torture. He has seen a lot in his time, has had pain inflicted on him, and has inflicted a great deal of pain onto others. He has the impression that this woman is not new to pain either. But nonetheless he feels his years of experience, both bad in this case, in his very being. She may know some of pain but not like him. They are all children, this man and woman and Matvey. They know not of suffering and evil. They are babes to the fear that Vladimir has grown up in. It makes him feel very, very old. Perhaps a little sad as well. Perhaps. 

The woman leaves as soon is she is able. Vladimir wants to convey to her that if Matt should need help again, he will go through hell and high water to find her. He wants to thank her for helping. Even if she did not want to. But he cannot seem to find the words. No matter, she would not like anything he has to say anyways. 

Vladimir is tired. He leaves the man and Matt, with some reluctance, to hash things out while he sleeps. The man's bed is way better than his couch. 

When the other man, named "Foggy," finally leaves it is no small relief to Vladimir. And this brings great pain to Matt. It seems that their talk last night had led to a falling out. He is not surprised. But then again, he does not understand the concept of friendship either. He has had Anatoly. That is all. He was family, he was blood. Lying to Anatoly would be like lying to himself. 

He frowns in thought. 

-

The silence leads into the next couple of days. It is only broken by simple questions and requests, where Vladimir is expected help the man. He owes the man this but he dislikes it just the same. 

"I'm hurt, asshole. Just get me the cup of orange juice, okay? I hate to ask but I can't get up myself," he bites at him. 

"Am expected to wait hand and foot for you, hmm Mathew?" He asks, irritated. 

"Just bring me the fucking juice," Matt says. He has his fingers pressed in his forehead that implies an impending headache. 

Vladimir shuts up and brings the man his stupid cup. 

The longer the wait is to learn when Matt is thinking of sending him to prison the longer he has to stew. He thinks about his life and about death. It is inevitable, he knows. He knows. He thinks Tolya and dogs. About hunger and thirst and pain. He thinks about Matt too. The man is grieving as if his friend "Foggy," had died. It makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. 

"My brother only hit me three times in entire life," he says suddenly while they're both attempting to eat take-out. 

"What?" 

"Anatoly. Only three times has he struck me." 

"Oh. Okay," Matt swallows. 

"Am going to tell you of one time." Vladimir confirms while nodding his head. "I had turned fourteen that year. I was a man. There was a boss who did not look kindly on my brother. He used to beat him. He beat others too, but I do not care.

He had gone on trip, drug run. He was gone for three days, no word. I know not of what was done. But, the boss was furious at Tolya for something. And he smacked my brother in his face. Like he was a woman. So, I see red. No one touches my brother." He pauses and takes in a deep breath to calm his anger. "The boss was old and fat. He had heart problems from eating too much meat. Me and Tolya had nothing and he was sick from his riches. I would not let him take Tolya away again. To dare strike my brother? Must be very stupid indeed. I am red and so angry and I hit him as hard as I can in bastard's heart. I hit until his heart went out." 

Matt has stilled in his seat next to him, barely bothering to breathe. 

"I killed him. The rules were that I need to be punished or we both die. So Anatoly beat me in front of the men." 

Vladimir takes another break to stuff his mouth with more noodles, and to gather himself. 

"It felt better to be struck by his hand than by the other men." 

Matt exhales shakily. 

"Why the hell did you just tell me that?" 

"You took a beating," he explains. "From that friend. Foggy. But it is better, right? They are a friend." 

"I-I guess," Matt says thickly. "We've known each other for a long time." 

"Then you will be friends again." He says with certainty. "Soon." 

"Yeah," Matt says uncertainly. "Soon." 

-

(soon.)

It has never been said that Vladimir is not a man of action. Anxiety is dripping through his veins. The waiting, the waiting, is agony. Crippling in spirit. Just do it, Matvey, he urges. Do it. 

The wound in his side is not fully healed, but maybe it is good enough. It may take years for him to be where he was before meeting the Mask. It might never really heal. He might never recover. His side might remain a permanent ache. 

But he tries not to think about that. 

When, Matvey? When?! 

Soon. 

"Vlad," There is a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

He grunts in return and gently shakes the hand off to continue washing dishes. 

"We need to talk," Matt's voice is soft. This is not new. "Vladimir-" 

Matt reaches out and shuts off the water.

"What, Matvey? Mary and Joseph, you American-" he doesn't bother saying the rest in English. Instead, he lets the easy roll of his native language roll off his tongue sharply. 

He is annoyed, this is nothing new. 

The man grabs the sides of Vladimir's face with his hands. 

"Shut up, asshole. We. Need. To. Talk."

Without waiting, the man walks into the living room stiffly. A turn of his head acknowledging where Vladimir had moved furniture around just to piss him off. 

"Could have just said," Vladimir says under his breath. 

"I did say!" Matt replies angrily. 

"I forget you have ears of fruit bat," he rolls his eyes and feels them almost hit the back of his head. "What is it you need to talk, Matt?" 

"Look - this isn't," he sighs and his shoulders start to slump. "-isn't easy, f-for me. You know it isn't." 

Vladimir sits down on the new shit couch. Something inside of him is saying he might not be able to stand in a minute. 

"You're almost recovered. Honestly, this might be as good as it gets for you. And you say you've told me everything about Fisk so there's no reason for you not to be in prison. You're not a good guy, Vladimir... which I know is... is hard to hear but just listen-" 

Vladimir raises a weathered hand to silence him. 

"I know, Matt. I understand." 

There is something foreign in his blood. Freezing all his cells. His lungs are shrinking. Is this what terror feels like?

"When?" He growls out. 

"I would say tomorrow but... it has to be tonight. This is as much warning as I could offer." 

"Yes. Thank you." 

There is someone screaming in the back of his head. 

"Am going to lay down now." 

He attempts to stand, attempts to get his legs to support his weight, to no avail. He feels light-headed. 

He spends the next few hours in complete silence. 

-

Anatoly was good at being quiet. It is a trait he inherited from his mother. He could make himself disappear for days at a time and return without people noticing. 

Vladimir always took notice of his brother. 

He is not good at being quiet. It is a trait shared with his father. He always has to keep his hands occupied. A tune hummed when he is not speaking. He can never enter a room without turning heads, and the presence he carries is too strong to go unnoticed. 

Even his footsteps are loud. 

There has only been four other times in his life where he managed to be silent. 

The fourth was when he saw what was left of his brother's body. The life was sucked out of his very being. Tolya. His brother. The other, and better, half of his soul. 

The third time he was completely silent, Anatoly and himself were convicted of murder, theft, violence, and thrown in cells. The anger curling in his fists and head had him foaming at the mouth. 

The second time he was completely silent the choice was taken from him. Dirty hands around his dirty wrists. He remembers being gagged and beat, dirty fairy. The stink and hurt filled him. His body screamed even as he remained silent. 

The very first time he was a child. As a boy he knew of the world in ways other children did not. But that was not why he was silent. His older brother had come with bruises littering his face and a grin so wide it shocked him. Inside his bloodied hands were crayons. 

"I know you had run out a while back... I have these for you." 

Vladimir, as a little boy, was overwhelmed by this act and love left him speechless. He could only smile in return. Anatoly did not mention how wobbly that smile was. Did not mention his little brother's shining eyes. 

-

It is a sort of routine for him as of late. He lies on the new shitty couch and sleeps. He wakes up shaking.

He sweated through the bedsheets again. 

Dinner is a quiet affair for them. Matt pretends that everything is okay, that this is just a normal night, that he does not notice how Vladimir's hand shakes. 

Vladimir cannot take this. Death has finally come for him, as it seems. 

He knows he should be more concerned. He knows that he should be planning, should escape, take the fork that is in his hand and jam it into Matt's neck and yet - 

And yet. His hand is shaking. Almost seizing. 

He makes a light fist and tries to sink into an apathetic state. It is usually easy to give into the deep numbness that sinks into his bones and stays. 

He should be panicking more. He should fight. He knows, he knows. He knows. 

The mantra in his head is disconcerting, unappetizing, and persistent. He shakes his head. 

He is going to die. 

Vladimir knew it would happen eventually. The way he has lived makes it a "when" rather than an "if" for dying young. He should be thankful death took his long to corner him. 

This is not how he pictured it, when he pictured dying at all. He never was one to think ahead. 

It would be him and Tolya. A shootout. Or maybe, maybe they would be killed in their sleep, together. Brothers even in death. 

There was one way that scares him more than dying alone. 

It would be quiet, because that is who his brother is. He would come in the middle of the night when Vladimir had fallen asleep. Had been at peace because his brother is watching over him. But no matter. There would be a hand over his mouth, if he was lucky. Warm, calloused, and large, hindering his breathing. He would wake up slowly, still half asleep, and would grab his attacker's arm try to throw him off. He would be a little shocked when he recognized who held him down but not as much as he should be. He would struggle once more, being as stubborn as he is, and then stop. Would relax under his brother's hand. After all, it is really not that all surprising. Of course it would come down to this. Vladimir is a monster. Fitting that he be put down by his own blood. His own hand.

Vladimir cannot swallow down his last meal. He tries, oh god he tries, but it comes back up violently. Shocking both him and the Mask. 

He is choking, he's choking, his brother's hand is over his mouth and there is another on his throat, he is dying. 

"Hey, hey, you're okay, you're okay. Just breathe. C'mon, asshole, breathe!" 

He is choking up.

"Don't want to die, Matvey! I don't want to die, don't! Oh shit, oh Jesus please no. Not without him! Not by him!" It does not occurs to Vladimir that he is crying, choking, really. Sobbing. Weeping. 

Hands shaking. Grasping at the man in the mask. Holding on to him tightly, to keep him safe, centered, tethered. Oh, he needs to be tethered. His heart trying to leave his body. 

"Don't. Don't! Please don't. Oh god, oh god, Am so afraid. So afraid, Mathew, please! I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. Stop it. Stop." He hits himself in the head. 

The Mask is trying valiantly to keep his cool. But watching a full grown man break down is not easy to witness. Tears well up of their own accord. His own hands latch out for an anchor, an answer to the beckoning, an attempt at being centered. Let it never be said that Matt is stable. He is not. He weeps with the Russian. Tries to fuse the two of them together.

(don't let this happen. please don't.)

(I have to. You're not good. You're not right, I can't. Please don't ask me. Please don't beg, stop. I know, I know. I'm so afraid please don't say that please don't be afraid of death. Please don't be human. Don't make me regret, you're killing me. You're going to die.)

"Oh god, I'm so scared. Shit." 

He is broken. This is not news to either of them. 

"No, no. You won't, you won't. You're gonna go to jail... you're not going to die. I promise you aren't. Stop saying that. C'mon," Matt says desperately. 

The take-out is abused and forgotten between them. 

Vladimir holds on to him. Tries to fuse them together. 

He is not his brother. Maybe that is why it does not work. 

"Do not leave me," this is a continuous stream of Russian pouring from his lips.

"I swear to you, Vladimir, I will fight Fisk. I will take him down." 

"Kill him," he begs. "For my brother." 

A pause. A hesitation and a decision. 

"I'll-I'll do it." Matt says. What else could he say?

Good. It is done. It will be done. Vladimir breathes a sigh of relief. 

A thought grips him. He grips Matt. 

"Do you think I could have been good?" He says it quietly, because this sort of question needs to be hushed. Held between them, observed without a light shining. 

"Do you think, Mathew, if things had been different in my life, I could have..." his voice breaks apart as his soul does. "That I could have been good? I could not have been always a monster, Mathew, could I have been?" 

Mathew breaks alongside him. 

"I know it, Vladimir." Mathew is crying. "I know it." 

One last thing, one last thing to settle. 

"Mathew, you will promise me one more thing," he rests his forehead unto Matt's. He is not his brother. "You will quit." 

Matt tries to pull away. But Vladimir is strong, and the grip of death releases no man. 

"You will. You promise me, you will meet a woman. Settle and get boring job. And you will have children who are kind, you will be kind." If he presses any deeper, they will fuse. 

This is not a time for argument. 

"I will, Vlad. They'll be kind, an-and good," 

Vladimir let's out a small laugh of relief. They are connected at this moment. 

"And they will be strong," Matt ends, a little desperately. Desperate and with a will to please. 

"No!" He squeezes the man's shoulders and grits his teeth. "They will be good, like you, Matvey. And they will be kind, like my Tolya." 

"And strong like you." Matt presses, finishes. 

"Do not say that," he has to make him understand. Shakes his head violently. "Do not think that." He whispers. 

"There are better things to be in this world than strong," he says with acid in his throat. "I would know." 

They part some time later. Hours, maybe minutes. It is hard to tell. It is hard for Vladimir to let go. He is very, very afraid. 

So they part. Mathew, dawning the mask and half-dragging Vladimir to the station. It is for show, and it is not. If his grip was looser Vladimir would have run as fast as he could. 

His day was numbered and now it is here. 

-

It was quite dramatic which seems fitting for an end. Fitting for a man like himself, fitting for a Mask who he might have considered a friend. Fitting end. 

The cell is cold. But Vladimir is very, very warm. 

His day has come. 

They have come for him. For Fisk and his endless promises. 

(we will be princes, brother! princes.)

And as the walls close in around him, as the hands finally (finally) reach out and grasp him, Vladimir feels his throat close up. 

He would want to say that he was brave, that he faced it dead on, but the truth is - 

The truth is 

Vladimir started laughing, or perhaps weeping. 

He could say, however, that he looked his adversaries in the eyes. He laughs until he could not. Until they were made screams. 

Vladimir is strong, but not invincible. He is strong but he is not kind. 

He is strong but it does him no good now. 

There are more important things to be than strong. He has sweated through his shirt. 

Death comes for him in a dark cell. It is patient, and not entirely cruel. But it is lengthy. 

Death comes for him. He is alone in a cold cell, in a country where he does not belong, without the brother he knew so well. 

-

If there is a sort of afterlife, a place between heaven and hell, it is waiting for Vladimir with open arms. 

If there is a place between heaven and hell, those open arms might outstretched, might be whispering in a sharp and very old language (that Vladimir knows better than himself) 

"Brother,"

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, it’s obvious I don’t own the characters right? Do I still have to mention that? Lol. Anyways. Like?


End file.
